


And Wheels Turn Over Solid Ground

by fadagaski



Series: Heritage [1]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Children, Children Handling Guns, Dad max, F/M, Fury Mom, Gen, Group Hugs, Trade Run Goes Wrong, Wasteland Family, as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 10:03:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6799411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadagaski/pseuds/fadagaski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Max and Furiosa's 8-year-old son Mumble decides he's old enough to go on a trade run with his mother. And no, he isn't scared. Really. </p><p>A fic to accompany YoukaiYume's fanbaby artwork (links inside).</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Wheels Turn Over Solid Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YoukaiYume](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoukaiYume/gifts).



> A fic for YoukaiYume based on her fanbabies ([1](http://youkaiyume.tumblr.com/post/137143820338/mad-max-fanbabies-sketch-dump-part-1-a))([2](http://youkaiyume.tumblr.com/post/138992825278/mad-max-fanbabies-sketchdump-part-2-part-1)).

“Now you sit still, Mr Canbear, and listen to me. I'm a History Man so you have to listen.” 

The raggedy stuffed bear, slumped precariously on a flat sandstone rock, peered with its one button eye at the boy in front of him. Legs crossed, Mumble straightened his spine and surveyed his audience with a thoughtful frown: Mr Canbear; a ragdoll, its hair fashioned from a black scarf; and a wooden carving of a dog, sanded smooth of splinters. 

Mumble nodded, satisfied. “Now, I'll tell you of how the Citadel became free.” He cleared his throat importantly.

A rumbling engine growled up even to the Faucets, where Mumble was hiding away from the worst of the sun's hot dry glare. He always burned if he went out after lunch, but here it was dim and cool and moist from the giant open cistern. He squinted up out of the carved hole at the white blaze of sky. 

The engine grumbled again. Only one bike was out on patrol that Mumble knew of. It could be – It might be – 

Mumble scrambled to his feet, History and toys forgotten. If he looked, he would be able to see who it was. But it was a long way down, and Mumble was afraid of heights. 

Voices. Cheering and laughter. 

Steeling himself with a quick breath, Mumble edged along the rough rock wall to the gaping maw that had once been a skull, or so he was told. His stomach squirmed, and his knees shook. Cold sweat prickled across his forehead and above his lip. He gripped the craggy wall with numb hands long before it chopped off at the wide pulpit.

The light was painful after hours in the gloom, and the wind scratched his face. Blinking at the sting of grit and sand, Mumble clasped hold of the rock, leaned forward on tiptoes as much as he dared and looked down. 

It was so far! Mumble's breath burst out of him in something like a shriek, for all that it lacked power. But he could see – yes, it was his pa, swinging his leg off the bike, his boxy leather jacket so obvious amongst a sea of bare shoulders. Val had already vaulted to her feet, jabbering and gesturing to Aunty Toast. Beyond the utter terror of hanging half out the window, Mumble felt joy fizzing in him to see his pa and his sister home safe.

The crowd of people wavered and parted and there was his mama, striding along the dirt road. She hardly seemed to slow before she swept Val up in a fierce hug, metal arm glinting in the sun as it held Val close. They touched foreheads before they stepped back. Mumble could see Val grinning proudly as Furiosa talked to her, even this far up, and his chest ached. He knew his mama would go to Max and greet him the same way, maybe adding a mouth kiss on at the end, but he didn't need to see it. His hands were sweaty, and sore from holding the rock so tight, and his belly hurt after pressing against the wall. He shunted back, away from the dizzying vertical drop from the Faucets. His whole body shuddered, head to foot, and his skin was clammy and cold. 

He felt clammy and cold on the inside too. Furiosa had hugged Val so tightly, and Val had smiled so widely, white teeth bright against the black of her hair. Mumble knew that Val must have done a good job – Val always did a good job, she was strong and fast and brave and she could shoot three tin cans out the sky in one go – and mama and pa were proud of her.

While he had been hiding inside, afraid of the sun and afraid of the height and afraid of the lizards that lived outside and even a little afraid of all the people who worked for his mama, cheering when she went out on trade runs and cheering louder when she came back. 

Pouting, Mumble slunk back to his trio of toys, slumping down with his back to the wall. His silent audience waited, expectantly, but he didn't feel much like telling a History anymore.

*

He was still sulking at dinner. Val, squashed on the bench opposite him between Aunty Capable and Furiosa, demonstrated with a spoon how she had shot the hat off the looters prowling around Citadel's territory.

“Shoulda seen his face!” Val laughed. “They won't be trying it on with us anymore.”

“You're a good shot,” Furiosa said, smiling, but the one that was sad at the corners. Mumble poked at his snake jerky.

Max elbowed him, and nodded at the mostly-full plate.

“Not hungry,” Mumble sighed.

“You're not feeling well?” Aunty Capable asked. Several pairs of eyes swivelled to Mumble; heat flooded his face, and he squirmed lower on the bench. The adults murmured to each other enough to make his ears burn. Mumble pouted at his own lap and tried not to let the tears clogging his throat move up. 

A chewy chunk of snake waggled sideways in front of his face. It jiggled back and forth a couple of times, drawing closer and closer to his mouth, until finally he opened up and it popped right in. Mumble peeked up at Max, but his pa was focused on his own dinner; he always ate with a manic intensity, like he didn't know when the next meal would be so he had to really concentrate on this one. 

But a minute later, another piece of snake danced in front of Mumble's face. Then some broccoli. Then a slice of peach. Mumble couldn't help it; his pa was so silly, pretending that nothing was happening. Every time Mumble glanced at him his face was blank, jaw working, but there was a crinkle at the corner of his eye that betrayed him.

At the next slice of peach, Mumble bit down on Max's fingers too.

“Ah!” Max said, shaking his hand. He glared at Furiosa. “Feral son.”

Furiosa raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Like his father,” she said. 

Max winked at Mumble, who grinned in return, and stuffed the last peach slice into his mouth. 

“The Rig's all set for the run tomorrow,” Furiosa said. No one much reacted but for a few acknowledging grunts. Even Val, normally bursting with enthusiastic questions, had her attention on her dinner.

The idea flared like a sudden bolt of lightning in Mumble's mind: him, riding in the War Rig, helping mama conduct the trade delivery, coming back and Max hugging him and Val smiling and everyone being so _proud_. It burst out of him: “Can I come?” 

People stopped eating to stare. Mumble felt his face grow red hot again, shoulders hunching up to his ears, but he kept looking at his mama, kept focusing on her surprised eyes so green in the low light. 

“Oh sweetie,” Aunty Capable said, “it's too dangerous.”

Mumble folded his arms. “Val did it,” he argued. She had – when she was younger than him.

“It's scary,” Val said. “You'll get afraid.” She didn't say it meanly – Val was never mean to him, she always tried to help him – but it was honest. Mumble was always afraid. 

“Won't,” Mumble said, pouting again. The tears burned thick and hot at the back of his throat; he swallowed against them to keep them down. 

Furiosa and Max looked at each other in that way they did, where they didn't say any words but they were having a whole conversation. Sometimes Mumble could follow it: a lip twitch here, a nod there. Not now, though. 

“Hm,” said Max, and popped the last broccoli piece in his mouth.

“Alright,” Furiosa said. Mumble gasped and sat up straight.

“Really?”

“Will it be safe?” Aunty Capable asked, her voice low with worry. 

Furiosa shrugged one shoulder. “Safe as it ever is. I'm taking a convoy, but – our reputation is normally enough.” She looked at Val as she said this, eyes shining proud, and Val beamed at her. “And it's only to Gastown.” 

Aunty Capable didn't look happy but she said nothing. Furiosa faced Mumble's anxious expression across the table and nodded slowly. She had the sad smile on again. “You sit in the cab with me. You do exactly as you're told. You don't speak to anyone who isn't from Citadel. Agreed?”

“Agreed!” Mumble grinned so hard it felt like his cheeks might burst.

*

Mumble could hardly sleep that night. His fierce imagination blended all the Histories he knew about the Fury Road and War into a montage, dark and foreboding like Aunty Cheedo's Histories, of buzzards and skeleton men and trucks that could chew metal. His heart drummed just at the thought. The adrenaline made him queasy. His mama had said it was as safe as a run could be, but Mumble – curled up in a ball under his blanket, listening to Val's easy breathing while she slept – agonised over all the ways it could go wrong.

In the morning he swung the other way. He could hardly eat breakfast he was so excited. He was going to go in the Rig! He was going on a trade run with his mama! The elation inside him was so big he thought he might swell up and float into the sky like that _Before_ balloon his pa told about. There didn't seem to be space in his belly for food between the joy and the nerves.

Better still, the Rig was leaving early to beat the worst of the heat, which meant he got to miss shooting lessons with Aunty Toast. Mumble hated shooting: he hated how fast he had to reload (he always fumbled the bullets), he hated how loud the pistols were (even with earplugs it still made him jolt and cry), and he hated the painful kick rattling from his wrist to his shoulder (“You'll get stronger,” Val tried to encourage him, but it just made it worse). But it wasn't a problem today!

It didn't really seem real until he was outside under the rapidly warming sun, and the tanker was _there_ and the Rig was _there_ and the road fell away from the shelter of the three towers. All of a sudden the reality was undeniable: Mumble was going to go out, where the buzzards and the crows lived, where the monster-men from Histories prowled the Wastes hunting for their pound of flesh. 

All of a sudden, Mumble went cold with the return of utter dread.

Shuffling from foot to foot, he watched as Furiosa reversed the Rig, locking into the tanker with a satisfying clunk. Then she got out and inspected the vehicle one last time as a dozen crew clambered onto the Rig, and three cars and a bike trundled out of the ground garages. Mumble shivered; his breakfast squirmed uncomfortably in his gut. He tried not to think about the lances sticking up like spines on the back of the Rig, or the flamethrower in the bed of the lead pursuer.

The crew gathered in a circle by the Rig and bowed their heads together.

Val appeared beside him. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, as if she knew. Mumble sighed and leaned into her a little: she was always reassuringly strong and warm and right there for him, whenever he needed her. He turned his face against her jacket and breathed the comforting smell in deep. Tears prickled under his eyes.

She turned him to look at her and fussed with the black scarf around his neck. Her eye were dark and serious. Then she placed both hands over his cheeks. “Be careful, and keep moving,” she murmured, parroting what Furiosa always said to Max before he went off on one of his trips.

It sounded so horribly final. Mumble bit his lip and took in a shuddering breath. He tried to kindle some of that excitement from last night at dinner to ward off the cry lodged in his throat.

“Hnmh,” he grunted, a close approximation of Max's normal response. Val snorted and hip-checked him. Mumble dredged up a smile. 

“Hnmh,” a deep voice grumbled behind, just before the both of them were swept up in a bear hug, screams and shocked laughter tumbling from their mouths. Mumble found himself planted back on the solid ground. He turned, squinting against the early sun as he smiled up at his pa. 

“Think you broke a rib.” Val scowled, rubbing her side. Max rolled his eyes and winked at Mumble. Then he stepped back and scanned him head to toe. Mumble shuffled, blushing, picking at the rough cloth of his pants. He felt suddenly very small.

His pa placed a solid hand on his shoulder and nodded, slow and reassuring, like he knew Mumble was ready for this. Mumble felt the knot under his lungs loosen.

Furiosa came to stand with the three of them, leaning forward to press her forehead to Max's, sharing breath for precious long moments. Then she bent and did the same to Val, ending with a strong hug.

She turned to Mumble and smiled. “Ready?” 

“Y-Yeah.”

“Then let's go.” 

Go. In the Rig. On the road. Out into the Wastes. 

The nerves slithered through him again. 

His pa patted his shoulder twice, and then nudged him forward. Mumble accelerated with the up-tick of his heartbeat. So fast he almost slipped, he sprinted for the passenger side, scrambling up the steps and in through the open window quicker than his fear could catch up. Once in his seat, he blinked and realised how high he had just climbed. By the side of the road, Val stared with jaw dropped. 

“Ready?” Furiosa asked. Mumble nodded; his face was frozen solid, and he felt like he might vomit up the moths currently swarming in his belly if he tried to talk. 

With a hiss and growl, the Rig moved forward. Mumble stared out the window at his family standing small and diminished. Val waved. Max gave him a thumbs up.

*

The first half hour was thrilling. Mumble had never left Citadel before – not any time that he could remember, anyway – so seeing the rolling dunes either side of the Rig stretching to the horizon was new and exciting. The convoy cars nipped around the Rig like bees to a flower. Sometimes crew would wave at him, and he would wave back, dragging up a smile.

But after those dunes were more dunes. And more. The infamous Fury Road was just a dirt track made hard by years of use. The crew soon stopped waving at him, focusing instead on scouting the terrain. Mumble slumped in his seat, one elbow propped on the door.

Trade runs were _boring_. 

And it was hot, too. The air blasted through the open windows, the kind of wind that dried the moisture from his eyes and scratched his throat when he breathed, but it did nothing to cool him. His bare arms kept sticking to the smelly leather seat. Pouting, Mumble curled sideways, brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. 

The Rig rumbled on and on and on. 

Furiosa glanced sideways at him. “Not what you were expecting?”

Mumble huffed. Giddy with nerves last night, he had envisioned a dozen different scenarios, each one more dramatic than the last, involving car chases and traps and Buzzards and hydraulics and explosions. It seemed just like Aunty Cheedo's stories – which was part of the problem. Sometimes those stories gave him nightmares from which he woke screaming. 

The thought that this run might be dangerous had plopped into the deep well of his anxiety and created huge ripples.

The reality was both a relief and a huge disappointment. 

Furiosa offered him a smile. “It gets more interesting in Gastown.”

Gastown was a smoky grey smear in the far distance. 

“Sleep,” his mama said. “Time goes faster.”

Mumble swallowed back frustrated tears and thought wistfully of the Faucets' cool, dim, damp interior, and Mr Canbear propped up in the corner.

*

Mumble jolted awake when the Rig lurched, crunching over something loud and metallic. Furiosa hissed in a breath as she twisted the wheel and the Rig slalomed, but the damage had been done, tyres _flub-flub-flubbing_ against the front wheel arches.

Scrambling upright, Mumble blinked sleepy dust from his eyes and stared out the front window. The three convoy cars swerved in front of the Rig, lances held high by bellowing men. 

Speeding down the road in a plume of sand was a mini-armada of small black vehicles. The snarl of their engines rattled over the Rig's rumbling baritone. Spikes bristled the shells of each car. Three of them waved screaming spinnies overhead. 

Mumble started to cry.

The breath sobbed out of him on a plaintive moan. “Mama, mama, mama,” he whined, reaching blindly out to touch her, the rest of his body frozen solid in his seat. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the metallic shrieking death charging towards them. His fingers grasped her shirt sleeve and gripped tight.

He was dragged sideways when she had to twist the wheel again, swerving around another trap in the road set to tear their tyres to shreds and ground them for the flies to swarm. Mumble banged to the floor as his mama stamped on the brake, wrenching the Rig back on to the road and accelerating hard.

His knees stung from the impact and he could taste blood where he had bitten his tongue. Face screwed up in misery, Mumble shuffled forward on the cold metal plating and buried his head against Furiosa's thigh, keening high and loud. Tears flooded over the hot swell of his cheeks; he rubbed them off against her pants but they kept coming, a thundering waterfall as he listened to the Rig horn blast and the convoy crew honk back. 

“Mumble,” Furiosa said.

His heart pounded loud and fast as a war drum inside his chest, _th-thum th-thum th-thum_. Sweating hands gripped his mama's pant leg and he ground his forehead against her knee, squeezed his eyes shut against the salty sting of tears and snivelled because they were going to die, all his horrible visions from the night before, all those terrible stories of slavers and cannibals were going to come true and Mumble sobbed afresh imagining his mama glassy-eyed at the wheel while he was dragged away screaming by men soaked in blood – 

“Mumble! Look at me!”

Her sharp tone brought his head up fast, blinking to clear his eyes of tears. Furiosa glanced down at him, her expression almost blank but for the pinch between her brows, then quickly back through the windshield. 

“Are we gonna die?” Mumble whispered, throat swollen with fear. 

His mama didn't answer at first, and Mumble curled up small, moaning into his knees while one shaking hand wrapped around her calf. He was going to die, they were going to kill his mama and then they would kill him and Val had been so right he was so _afraid_ –

The loud retort of a revolver drew a punctured scream from his throat. Furiosa fired and fired out the window while Mumble cried against her leg, knuckles white from the bloodless grip he held. 

“Mumble!” she called, in the firm voice she used with his pa when Max wasn't all the way in the now. Mumble blinked up at her, face hot and wet, eyes stinging. She dropped the gun into his lap. “Reload it.”

Mumble stared at the warm black metal, struck dumb. Reload it? What did she –

More gunfire, blasting painfully loud. Mumble yelled and slapped his hands over his ears.

“Mumble! Mumble, I need you. You have to reload the guns.” She dropped the second on top of the first – heavy metal pressing down and down on his thighs – and pulled the sawn-off shotgun from its slot above her head. Outside the window, a wave of spiky black cars whizzed past. Somewhere along the Rig spinnies shrieked against metal armour plating, and lances rained down from above with deafening bangs. Furiosa looked him straight in the eye, and smiled. “I know you can do it. Reload.”

Hands trembling, throat hurting, queasy to his stomach, Mumble reached into the glove compartment for the bullets stashed there and started to reload. His fingers fumbled, spilling precious bullets across the floor, but in half a minute the revolver was loaded and he passed it back to his mama.

She fired – _BANG BANG BANG_ – out the window. There was a screech, a smash, and a spectacular explosion that rocked the Rig. Mumble swallowed down a sob and reloaded the shotgun.

Furiosa fired faster than he could load, but Mumble kept his head down and just focused, like Aunty Toast taught him in shooting lessons. His fingers were blackened and scorched but he could hardly feel the pain, hardly feel his heart slamming against his ribcage, hardly feel his lungs hitching for breath after panicky breath. He just loaded – pistol after shotgun after revolver – because his mama needed him to, and because every time he passed up a weapon she smiled at him. 

How long it took, he didn't know. Time seemed to freeze, and all there was in the world was the guns, Furiosa, and Mumble in between. But somehow, eventually, Furiosa sighed in huge relief, enough to catch Mumble's manic attention. 

“Gastown's sent reinforcement,” she said, just before a roar of trucks with polecats swinging high stormed past the Rig, leaving it free to coast in with its cargo in tact.

Mumble handed up the last gun – a derringer, bullets small and slippery between his fingers; he hadn't even realised he was loading it as he listened to Furiosa – and then sat there with numb, empty hands. The skin of his cheeks felt sore and tacky, long dried of tears. His whole body buzzed with a weird banked energy he had never felt before.

He was exhausted, worse than staying up until late with the Vuvalini listening to stories of Before. 

“Hey,” Furiosa said, and patted her lap. Mumble blinked hazily. Then, on legs that shook under his weight, with arms that trembled even to haul him up, he climbed between her torso and the wheel. She was hot, and sweaty, and he was too big to fit comfortably but Mumble didn't care. His chest felt bruised on the inside. His shoulders and back ached. On his lap, his hands clenched each other but it didn't stop the shaking.

Furiosa wrapped her arm around him, cradling him close, stroked the hair off his forehead and pressed a fierce kiss there. “So proud of you,” she muttered against his crown; her voice sounded warped and thick.

Sighing, Mumble rested his head against her collarbone and watched the steel spires of Gastown grow in the windshield.

*

The Rig rolled in to Citadel with a hiss of brakes that matched Furiosa's hiss of breath. Mumble glanced across and returned her smile with a wobbly one of his own. Outside, the customary crowd was twice its normal size, and all the Sisters stood next to Max and Val, matching frowns of worry on their faces.

“Mum!” Val cried, racing forward as Furiosa descended the driver's steps. Furiosa caught her in a desperate embrace, holding her close as she buried her face into the unruly mop of black hair. Max approached swiftly after, wrapping both women in his arms, head _thunking_ none-too-gently against Furiosa's brow. Their eyes, when they parted, were wide and damp. 

Watching them from the passenger seat, Mumble ached with the depth of warmth and sorrow inside him, a writhing figure-eight of agony from his gut to his throat, choking him of sound, robbing him of movement. He could only watch as his family clutched each other. 

“Where's Mumble?” Val piped up between the encompassing arms of their parents. Her eyes peeped out above Max's leather jacket. She spied him in the passenger seat on the far side of the Rig.

Mumble gave her a little wave. 

“Come here!” she cried, and wriggled out of the clutch so she could meet him at the top of the driver's steps. When she threw her arms around him, Mumble let out a hitching sigh and buried his face against the curve of her neck, breathed deep the homely smell of her leather jacket and the weird soap Aunty Dag gave them. His arms trembled against her back but it was okay, he was okay – he was home.

“Let him out,” his mama murmured just below them. “He's had a long day in that cab.”

It felt bizarre to be standing on solid, unmoving earth again after a whole day spent in the Rig to the swaying background burble of the tyres over the road. He stamped his foot, testing the strength of the ground against his leg. His knee twinged – the only hint of the event he had just been through.

“Hnh,” his pa said, resting a hand on his shoulder. His eyes asked the question unvoiced. Mumble catalogued the burns on his fingers and his sore knees and the bite on his tongue and felt – _okay_.

He nodded. 

Three pairs of arms swept him into an embrace so tight he could barely breathe from it. Mumble didn't care, not when he was safe again, back with his family.

“We just – kept moving,” he said, muffled against Max's chest. Someone stroked a hand through his hair and the arms at his back pulled him closer.

**Author's Note:**

> Join me on Tumblr for [more Mad Max mayhem](http://fadagaski.tumblr.com/).


End file.
